I stand a hundred feet above the sand,
lifeline cinched about my waist,Â
feathers quivering at my fingertips,
the towering mast beneath my feetÂ
raising me up beside the deified dead.
The sunset horizon stretches out behind me,
casting we Totonac into sharp relief,
voladores silhouetted against the Mexican twilight.
I put my head down and stretch out my arms,
weaving my destiny between my toes,
and step off into my downward spiral,
a thunderbird or a phoenix.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
(Inspired by a passage in Robert Callois’ “The Classification of Games.”)